


In That Infinite Moment

by Draco_sollicitus



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Endgame Fix-It, Eventual Smut, Fake Steve Rogers - Freeform, Hiatus, Impostor Steve Rogers, Jewish Bucky Barnes, Jewish Wanda Maximoff, M/M, Part Buddy Comedy Part Tragedy, Post-Endgame, Rescue Missions, Somewhat TFATWS Speculation, Time Travel, Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-10
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:35:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23578534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Draco_sollicitus/pseuds/Draco_sollicitus
Summary: After the Snap, after the Endgame, after the War:There's recovery. And Bucky Barnes, faced with the living ghost of the man he's loved his entire life, finds that recovery is anything but linear, especially when he can't shake his lingering paranoia from his time as the Winter Soldier, the paranoia that tells him something iswrongin the world.Working closely with Sam Wilson, formerly The Falcon and now Captain America, Bucky strives to put his grief and anxiety behind him while avoiding the one person in the world he once counted on more than anything or anyone else.But, Bucky's paranoia is slowly validated as the pieces of the puzzle fall together - until he and what's left of the Avengers realize that the man who came back to Tony's property that day, and who's been living in a protected facility ever since,isn't Steve Rogers.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Sam Wilson, James "Bucky" Barnes & Wanda Maximoff, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 74
Kudos: 131





	1. the hopeless longings of the day

**Author's Note:**

> _Notes_  
>  Hello! It's been a minute since I read or wrote Stucky fic, but this idea has been nagging at me for a while. But! I have been on tumblr, and I saw some posts from Caraldanvers (for example: [here's a great set of theories!!!](https://caraldanvars.tumblr.com/post/189576689511/theory-old-steve-is-a-hydra-agent-marvel-has-a)) which made me think I was NOT alone in the world, assuming that Old!Steve wasn't Steve at all!!!
> 
> Anyway, here is my attempt at untangling all of my issues I had with Endgame (shipper goggles aside) and the bizarre characterization of Steve/the butchering of his character with his ending. I finally have time, the one plus side to being stuck at home, to write this, and I'm really excited.
> 
> Some facts up front: As diehard of a stucky fan as I am, I do not hate Peggy Carter or Steggy in general! I also don't hate Sharon Carter, and she'll play an important role in this, as she should because she's kick-ass.
> 
> There's going to be some action-adventure with Sam and Bucky (because they deserve it), and some sad-pining-grief on Bucky's part. I'll put all relevant warnings at the start of each chapter, and keep them from cluttering the overall tags of the fic//spoilering early chapters//etc. You can always message me on tumblr if you want to make sure something won't trigger anything, or if you need to know x or y will be avoided in the fic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, first set of warnings:  
>  **Warnings**  
>  Comic style violence/shooting after the break titled "Five Months Later"  
> In that same section, suggested violence against children/implied child experimentation and endangerment (non-graphic)  
> Pervasive themes of grief, angst, loss, death (after Endgame)  
> Unhealthy thoughts on Bucky's part, feelings of self-hatred/self-doubt, etc

* * *

  
Bucky’s never understood how it can be sunny at funerals. Seems rude, firstly. Makes him squint, secondly.

At Tony Stark’s funeral, he stands there quietly in his too-tight jacket that Wanda had found for him at the last second and winces through the eulogies. Pepper Potts is a stand-up lady, he can tell. Part of him wants to go over and give his best wishes, but he’s so surprised to be standing on land owned by Howard’s son, that he doesn’t want to push his luck a little further by … well, reminding Tony’s widow that he’s here to begin with.

Better to stand witness to the grief around him. He can do that. 

Bucky’s exhausted, sure, and can’t believe he died - what, the _third_ time now? If he’s counting that time in Budapest - and he’s back now. He hasn’t lost anyone past the normal list (Ma, Pa, Bubbe, Zayde, Becca, Judith, Ruthie, Mrs. Rogers, Agent Carter, the Howlies, Howard, his own brain _but don’t go there,_ Nat, _really don’t go there_ ). He’s been surrounded by ghosts for decades, made quite a few himself, and even turned into one.

Grief is something he wears well.

But then.

But then, Steve gets on that platform, not even a day after he had whispered something quietly to him, something that he holds onto like a lifeline - _but don’t go there_ \- and disappears into a past that Bucky can’t follow him into. Poetic really, when Bucky’s past is lost to him. It’s fair, he guesses. Steve lost his past, too. Wants to relive it, or get a chance to live it.

Bucky’d be fine never remembering his past, personally. He’d like to keep 1917-1944, and then … well maybe a few moments here and there after 2014. 

He watches Sam talk to Steve from a distance; it’s fair, he tells himself. The second he heard _time travel_ and _Pegs helped me, Buck, can you believe it? Pegs, still alive, perfectly healthy,_ he knew it was over. No matter what Steve had whispered to him when they’d found each other. No matter what promises had been made, over and over again, as they chased each other around the globe and through a timeline so messy Bucky can’t believe the addition of a literal time travel machine didn’t explode the whole damn thing somehow.

Steve’s here, but it’s not Steve. It’s a Steve who’s lived almost ninety years of his life without him. Not his fault that every memory Bucky still has that’s good is Steve.

Bucky didn’t lose anyone after the Snap. 

But he watches Steve Rogers give Sam Wilson the shield with withered hands. He sees Steve smile over at him, no doubt confused why he’s standing a distance. He sees that Steve’s eyes are still blue, but not the blue that he remembers, the kind of blue that used to get him out of bed in the morning in Brooklyn, in Bucharest, in Wakanda. He turns and walks away without saying a word to the person who used to have all his words. He tells himself that he’ll be okay, he has nothing to complain about next to Clint or Wanda or Pepper Potts - he didn’t lose anyone after the Snap.

But he lost everything anyway.

Next to the water, Bucky settles into a bench and rubs a metal thumb over metal knuckles and tries to breathe through his nose like the nicer doctor in Wakanda showed him. Steve isn’t even half a mile away and he has _nothing_ to say to him. He doesn’t want to hear about a girl - whatever he and Sam were talking about when Bucky turned away, unwilling to hear anything else even from a distance - he doesn’t want to hear about dances and Pym particles and _end of the line_ or -

There’s a group of people talking up the hill behind him, but it fuzzes to background noise in his brain. Too tired to be alert, he thinks, half-closing his eyes. Then, smaller footsteps, barely making a noise on the grass or fallen leaves still decaying from winter.

They come right up behind him, and he doesn’t open his eyes. “Hey, kid.”

Wanda slips into the seat next to him, folding her thin hands together over her knees. “Hi.”

“You okay?”

Wanda nods for a second and then tilts her head. “No. I don’t think … that will ever be me. ‘Okay’.”

“I get that,” Bucky mutters, looking out to the water that ripples behind a small family of ducks. All in a line. _End of the l-_ “It’s been a shit day, huh?”

Her lips twitch and it feels like a small victory. “Real shit.” They trade a small smile, and Bucky rests his arm on the bench behind her; she leans into it slightly, which is good for someone as jumpy as her. They both have their reasons to be jumpy.

The kid scares the shit out of him, but he does like her.

“Sometimes I wonder what else the universe can take from me,” she whispers, brown eyes wide and staring off into the distance, flickering red at the edges of her iris. “Sometimes it feels like there’s nothing left.”

“There’s always something,” Bucky offers and then winces because that’s hardly comforting. “I mean, you still have …. People who care about you. I for one, I mean, well … you know.”

“I know.” She snorts and shakes her head, the red fading from her eyes. “You’re very … I wish you could have met Pietro. You would have liked him.” Bucky knows the name and the face; he also knows the sadness in her voice.

“I think I like him plenty still,” he notes, and that makes her smile.

“And,” he adds, “for what it’s worth, I feel the same way. Like there’s nothing left to lose.”

Wanda tilts her head again, her smile strange and distant like it gets when she senses something in the universe.

Sometimes, he imagines it like a web around her; she can pluck a string of it and feel the vibrations out to the edges of time and space. It’s a beautiful image, and a terrifying one.

Probably because he spent too much time around the Widows. Whatever.

“Don’t despair,” Wanda says, putting a small hand on his arm. Most anyone could try that without permission, and he’d probably snap a wrist, but he doesn’t mind it when it’s the kid. “You’ll get your Steve back.”

“He isn’t my-” Bucky scoffs a laugh to hide the anger-sad-pain-grief that courses through him. “Nah. Lost him, too.”

“Maybe, along the way,” Wanda agrees softly, her eyes still distant. “But - he’s still alive.”

“Yeah. ‘Course he is,” Bucky scoffs again, but Wanda doesn’t respond. Her brow furrows. “What?”

“He’s lost,” Wanda whispers. Bucky frowns; he isn’t lost, he’s out there in the trees with Sam, and sure no one can see him right now besides the two of them, but that doesn’t mean he’s - “But. He’ll find his way back. You’re his - what’s the word…” She smiles again, blinking to clear her eyes. “Compass.”

It’s a knife to the heart, really. “Nah, that’s Agent Carter. I’m sure you saw his-”

“I did.” Wanda’s smile is slightly teasing. “But when he gets back, ask to see it. Behind her picture, I think you’ll find something ... interesti-”

“ _Wanda_!” Clint Barton bellows from the top of the hill. “Come meet your niblings!”

“What?” Wanda laughs, standing up and frowning at Clint. 

“It means nieces and nephews,” Bucky explains. “I … think.”

“Oh.” Wanda’s face lights up. “That sounds nice.”

“It does.” Bucky’s glad they aren’t talking about Steve and compasses anymore. “See you at shul?”

“You bet.” Wanda squeezes his shoulder as she slips past him, back up the hill, and Bucky tries to sit there a little longer before he sighs and heaves himself up, heading back to the metaphorical elephant in the room of his head.

Sam’s smiling - frayed, Bucky can tell, he unfortunately has a deep-seated conditioning to note people’s microexpressions, helpful in interrogations and the like - when he walks up to former Captain America and new Captain America.

“What do you think?” Sam asks, holding the shield up on his arm and smiling at Bucky.

“Looks good,” he answers softly, and Sam blinks in surprise. No doubt expecting some smart-ass line. Bucky can use those later: right now, he’s trying not to look straight at Steve. Like looking at an eclipse, he thinks. It’s where the sun used to be, and it’s still the sun but different. Don’t do it. 

“Maybe you can get your old buddy to tell us about that girl,” Sam says, clearly trying to keep things light, but it doesn’t stop the way Bucky’s throat goes dry, the way he blinks back burning tears suddenly, or his urge to vomit.

“Nah.” Bucky shakes his head, hands back in his pockets as he stares at the ground. “Steve never liked to talk about girls.”

Steve clears his throat, and Bucky glances up at him, for a second. He looks sad. His voice sounds sad. It doesn’t sit right with him. Why does _he_ get to be sad? Picture perfect life with his perfect wife and probably perfect kids (the thought of Steve with kids hurts him as bad as it did in 1943) and perfect house and perfect _everything_ -

“My memories aren’t what they used to be,” Steve says, and Sam stiffens in surprise. “I don’t know if it’s the serum reversing, or old age catching up to me - I’m 111 now. Don’t know if too many of my stories would be thrilling or just a sad old man talking about the past.”

Without warning, Bucky thinks about a farmhouse in France, thinks about big hands roving over his chest and back, thinks about _warm-home-safe_ and blue eyes and full lips and a twice-broken nose and _end of the line_ and _sweetheart_ and how he would have done _anything_ to keep him alive -

“Is this return a big secret, Cap?” Sam asks, frowning now. “I can’t help but notice you stayed away from the party.”

Banner had walked away, and no one is out here on this part of the property. Bucky frowns too, his mind churning briefly before Steve responds. 

“I think … I want to rest,” he answers. “I think it’s best for everyone if I … died in the final battle. Less questions.”

 _You aren’t Steve,_ something in Bucky screams for a moment _You’re a coward, you aren’t my best friend, who the fuck are you, how dare you carry his shield and his name, you aren’t him, you aren’t my Stevie, you aren’t the man I loved and love and will love -_

He tries to make himself stop that train of thought. It’s something he’d been working on in therapy before the Snap. He’s betrayed, sure, but … this is their reality now. If it feels wrong, it’s because he hates change.

Bucky forces himself to breathe slowly while Sam and Steve talk details: Maria Hill will know about Steve’s return to facilitate a place for him to live until he dies ( _don’t think about it_ ), and only Bucky and Sam will know that he’s back.

 _Coward,_ Bucky screams inside his head the whole time, no matter how hard he tries to stop it, he can’t, _coward, coward, coward_ -

At the end, before they part ways, Steve shakes Sam’s hand, and then holds his hand out to Bucky. Gritting his teeth, he takes it, and nods once, silently at Steve. _You took all the stupid with you after all,_ he thinks angrily, meeting Steve’s eyes for half a second.

Bright blue. Painful blue. Perfect blue.

Bucky pulls away and doesn’t look back at Steve’s face.

Maria sends a car after they somewhat debrief her, her expression growing more hilariously incredulous by the second, and then it’s just Sam and Bucky, in the woods as the wake winds down at the main house.

“I'm heading home,” Sam says, shaking his head. “I don’t even know what I’m gonna do about-” he hefts the shield for a second and then drops it back down to his side, his shoulders slumping.

Bucky feels slightly guilty - Sam had been Steve’s best friend for the years between the ice and the Snap. He lost someone too just now.

“Where are you headed?” Sam asks him directly, and Bucky shrugs.

“I’ll probably sleep here tonight, and then. Don’t know.”

“You’re gonna stay … with Pepper?”

“No!” Bucky barks a laugh, amused by the very notion of her letting him stay under her roof. “No, I meant -” he gestures to the deeper woods beyond their little clearing, and Sam stares at him.

“You’re going to sleep outside?”

“I mean,” Bucky frowns at him. “I’m quite literally the scariest thing out here.”

“Uh-huh. Good luck with that.” Sam nods and starts to walk off towards the parking lot. Bucky turns back towards the water, slightly surprised when he hears Sam mutter: “oh, fuck I am _going to regret this_ -” 

“Hey! Murder Eyes!”

“You rang?” Bucky asks dryly, turning to stare up at Sam. 

The afternoon sun filters through the trees, illuminating Sam’s features, softening them into a beauty that’s ferocious and compassionate all at once; Bucky thinks he must be waxing poetic, so he blinks as Sam grinds his teeth for a second, hands balled into fists.

“Come stay with me tonight,” Sam says at last. “Until we find you sleeping arrangements that don't make me think you’ll be fighting Bambi in the middle of the night.”

“Wouldn’t be much of a fight.”

Sam sighs and pulls out his car keys. “Are you coming or not?”

* * *

This apartment in New York is different than the place Sam had in D.C., smaller and less personal. Sam sets up the couch in the den pretty quickly, and Bucky helps where he can, but Sam tells him to buzz off a few too many times, so he goes to the bathroom and hyperventilates. Seems to be the right thing to do, given the circumstances of his life.

When he settles in for the night, Sam comes in and checks on him (probably checking to see if he hasn’t bolted for the window in the den, the two windows in the living room facing south, the front door, or the entrance to the ventilation shaft which he could fit into if he deactivated his arm and took it off).

“Everything okay in here?”

Bucky sits on the sofa bed and looks around the room for a second before nodding, lips pursed together. “Yeah. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” Sam leans against the doorway, and Bucky feels a _moment_ coming. Sure enough: “It’s okay, you know. To not be okay.”

“I know that.”

“Do you? Because … a lot of fucked up shit happened in the past ... forever of your life. And today, with Steve coming back-”

“-Don’t-”

“-It fucked me up too, Bucky.” That gets his attention: Sam’s never used his name before. “In a way that I haven’t processed yet. And I’m not saying you need to talk to me about it, but … if you did talk about it, I’d listen.”

“Got it.” Bucky wants this conversation to be over. Something churns in his gut. He thinks he might be sick.

“Or anyone else,” Sam suggests. “As long as you talk to someone-”

“The only person I’d talk to about this, is, is,” Bucky begins, and then his face crumbles without warning. Mortified, he hides his mouth behind his hand. There’s no mistaking the sob that chokes out of his throat, though.

Bucky cries horribly, like he’s six years old again, like he’s hiding behind a tent in the barracks after a nightmare again, like he’s just remembered Steve’s name again.

“I d-don’t,” he chokes out, “H-have a-a-anyone _left_ -”

This world isn’t for him. He shaped it as part of Hydra, whether or not he wanted to, and now it’s shape is one that cannot hold him, broken as he is. There’s nothing for him in it anymore.

Sam lets out a soft sigh, and then crosses the room slowly. Bucky holds up a hand, flinching away from his presence - _weakness will not be tolerated, Soldat_ \- and he’s halfway through an apology when Sam speaks over him. 

“I’m going to hug you.”

Sam, who once threw an entire chicken enchilada at Bucky’s head because he stuck his tongue out at him, shocks Bucky’s sobs into quiet hiccups for a second. Taking that as his cue, he sits next to Bucky and wraps an arm around him, and then another.

“I’m only doing this once, okay? So don’t like, bite me or anything. I don’t want rabies.”

Bucky’s breath shudders out of him, and tears tremble on his jaw, but he manages to snark back, “I don’t have rabies. I got my shots.”

“Wow, almost a joke there.” Sam holds him tightly for five seconds, and Bucky matches his breathing, holding onto Sam’s arm like a lifeline. The ache behind his chest doesn’t go away, but it does subside, and then Sam pulls away and stands back up.

“For the record, you haven’t lost everyone.” Sam crosses his arms and looks down at him. “You still have Wanda, and Shuri and the king, and … and me.”

Bucky wipes his eyes, nodding reluctantly. and Sam whistles.

“Wow, I thought you were wearing eyeliner this whole time.”

That makes Bucky laugh, and maybe speaks to his vanity a little.

“Only when I murder people,” he deadpans.

“If I tell anyone we hugged, you gonna murder me?” Sam seems to realize that this half-way humor is a safer place for them to be, and Bucky appreciates it for what it is.

“...Maybe.”

They share a soft grin, probably the first soft smile they’ve exchanged, and Sam squeezes his shoulder once before stepping fully away.

Steve once told Bucky that Sam Wilson’s heart had cracked so wide open, there might be room for the whole world inside it. And that’s what made him a hero. Right now, Bucky’s inclined to agree with him, no matter how pissed he is at Steve.

Sam pauses at the door. “We’ll … we’ll figure something out.”

“Yeah. We’ll figure something out.” Bucky agrees, his chest throbbing where his heart used to be, all six and a half foot dumbass of it.

“It’ll be healthy,” Sam continues, flicking the light off for him. Bucky can see him crystal clear in the dark but thinks it might be rude to point that out. Sam shrugs and turns to walk away. “Healthier than crying in the dark and plotting assassinations, or whatever it is you do for fun.”

“Assassinations are on Wednesdays,” Bucky whisper-calls after him, not wanting to wake Sam’s ma.

“No, on Wednesdays, we wear pink,” Sam shoots back, under his breath and well-aware Bucky can still hear him (and probably not aware that Bucky _has_ seen that movie, he was brainwashed, not dead, _thankyouverymuch_ ).

He cries a few more times on and off on that thin mattress that feels a lot like kindness he doesn’t deserve, and by the time he’s beaten one of the pillows into lumpy-soft submission and halfway-drifted to sleep, Bucky’s tried to convince himself to trip into the idea that Sam is right.

They’ll figure this out, and whatever they choose, it’ll be good for him. Healthy. Distracting, but healthy.

* * *

_Five Months Later_

_(September, 2023)_

“We came all the way out here on the _off-chance_ we’d run into Hydra, and we let _that guy_ get away?” Sam barks over the comms. “Can I ask _why_ you didn’t shoot him?” 

Bucky snorts, checks the scope on his rifle and then slips behind the lower stone wall at his nine. “You can ask. I might not answer.”

“Oh, for the love of-” Distant gunfire sounds in the distance, louder over the earpiece tucked under Bucky’s floppy hair.

He blows it out of his face, irritated, and decides he either needs to cut it, or do what Wanda suggested and put it into a man-bun. Bucky makes a face at the thought of it. Definitely cutting it.

Not that he wouldn’t look cute with a man-bun. He’d rock the man-bun.

“A _little_ help here?” Sam demands, and Bucky’s up and running a second later.

“So picky,” Bucky mutters, his breathing not indicating that he’s running at a five-minute mile pace. Knockoff serum has its perks. “ _Bucky_ , don’t shoot that guy. _Bucky_ , shooting is wrong. _Bucky_ , why didn’t you shoot that man?”

“I told you you couldn’t shoot that guy in line at _Starbucks,_ man, that is _so_ different and you know it-”

“He was yelling at the barista!” Bucky crouches down behind a tree at the edge of the compound and tracks Captain Falcon ( _wow, Sam does_ not _like that nickname_ ) from the new angle. He’s engaged with six unfriendlies. Multiple handguns. One automatic. And - 

“They have a rocket launcher?” Bucky asks incredulously.

Sam swoops lower and shoots one of the unfriendlies, who grunts audibly from pain and falls. It’s a nonlethal hit, Bucky can tell from here. Sam is unbelievably, frustratingly moral like that.

Like that weird guy wearing the devil-gimp-suit out in Hell’s Kitchen. Yikes, he does not like Bucky. Or how he refers to his costume.

He stands, shifts his stance, shoots, _onetwothreefourfive_ , less worried about non-lethal hits than his partner, and then salutes up to Sam. “If I can’t kill that fucker, I want that rocket launcher.”

“Bucky, no.”

“They have a creepy lab.” Bucky runs for the rocket launcher, hoping he can make it before he gets Falcon-kicked in the head. “I don’t like creepy labs.”

“Bucky, no!”

“Bucky, yes.” He slides on the ground like he’s playing baseball, turning his body to snag the rocket launcher - heavier than expected, so he feels the plates in his arm adjusting - bracing himself on his back leg to slide the last few feet. “Be right back.”

He sprints to the entrance that all the bad guys had spilled out of a few minutes ago, glad that Sam’s given up on chastising him over the comms and is probably more worried about securing the civilians. Bucky kicks the door open and hoists the rocket launcher up on his shoulder, striding forward with his spine straight, shoulders set - the murder walk, as Sam calls it - and peers through the scope.

Right before he pulls the trigger, he hears something.

“Sam?” He whispers into the comms. “I thought you said the guards were clear.”

“They are?” Sam sounds slightly out of breath, no doubt Captain-ing to his full extent. “Counted twenty-two on the initial scan, I got twenty-two out here.”

“Run the scan again,” Bucky says, frowning as he lowers the rocket launcher. “Think we might still have company.”

There’s a faint whoosh as Sam’s little Redwing flashes past him, and goes further into the lab, turning at the end of the long room.

“Nothing. Here, I’ll turn on-” Redwing flashes, and Sam sucks in a breath. “Wait a minute-”

“What is it?” Bucky strides forward, rocket launcher still primed, sweeping from side to side in case anything was missed. His ears prickle at the noise again - louder now that he’s close.

Breathing.

Many people breathing-

“There’s at least ten - twelve - in there - heat signatures - but, Bucky -”

There’s a lock on the door at the end of the room - faint enough that it wouldn’t have triggered their initial sweep. Bucky feels sick - they almost missed it. He drops the rocket launcher, almost forgetting to respond to Sam on the comms. 

“Bucky, wait a second, don’t go in blazing, I repeat, don’t go in -”

“Wilco,” Bucky snarls, yanking on the lock. “Any chance a guy out there has some kind of key?”

“You gotta key?” Sam asks someone else off the comms. “Hey. Dumbass. Gotta a - a— God, what's Czech for key?”

“ _klíč_ ,” Bucky responds immediately, more uncomfortable than he was a second ago because he does _not_ remember learning Czech.

Sam repeats it more or less correctly, and judging by the grunt of pain on the other end, Sam didn’t like the answer. “We gotta get that door open,” Sam mutters, “I don’t know when the extraction team will be here-”

Bucky taps the lock and it hums to life - he can make out a complicated series of symbols that don’t seem to correlate to numbers or letters, which he relays to Sam.

“Scan the lock,” Sam urges him, “I’ll send it over to Maria, get them to work on it-”

“No time.” Bucky shakes his head. “This whole place is probably primed to blow in case of infiltration.”

“Wait _what_ -”

“Didn’t want to tell you in case it made you nervous,” Bucky says without a hint of apology, shoving his shoulder into the door. It’s solid metal, so of course nothing happens. 

“I’m certainly fucking nervous now!”

“You’re outside,” Bucky points out calmly. It’s like they’re discussing the weather. “If anything, I should be nervous.” He heaves his body into the door again, hard enough to feel something in his back pop.

Funny how discussing his impending death by Hydra-booby-trap causes him less distress than the checkout line at Foodtown. Probably something to talk to his therapist about.

Bucky curls the fingers of his left arm into a fist, pulls his arm back, and slams the vibranium into the lock with every inch of force he can muster. The metal around the lock dents, and the mechanism hisses.

“What was that-”

Bucky hits it again, and again, unrelenting, and eventually, the door caves in enough around the lock that Bucky can curl his fingers into the metal, and pull as hard as he can, grunting in pain and exertion as it tugs on his shoulder.

“I am _coming_ in there-”

The door flies open with a scream of metal ripping, and Bucky shakes his hand out as he sets the door aside so it doesn’t slam into the floor and cause more undue terror to the inhabitants inside.

“Jsem tu, abych pomohl,” he says softly, putting his hands up immediately. He wishes it were brighter so they could see his face. “Ich bin hier um zu helfen. I’m here to help,” he repeats in English, and then Russian, Romanian, anything. 

The oldest one in the group can’t be older than twelve, and the smell of the room suggests they’ve been in here a while. A few are shivering even though the temperature isn’t lower than optimal, and Bucky wants to throw up, or punch something, or both when he sees the youngest, not a day over six, shaking in what looks like half an old t-shirt. 

“Hey,” he whispers to the kid closest to him. “We gotta go.” He jabs his finger over his shoulder. “I wanna help you,” he repeats, and then a kid looks up with a gasp, face bright with what looks like hope, and his heart twists in his chest.

“ _Kapitan_ !” they shout. “ _Kapitan Amerika_!”

“Oh, I have bad news,” Bucky begins, wincing slightly, and then he realizes there’s someone behind him - his attention must have been fully focused on the kids’ state if he missed the sound of Sam coming up behind him. 

“Let’s go, kids,” Sam says in a voice that’s not quite boss-Bucky-into-going-to-bed-at-3, and more I-want-to-save-the-world-because-I’m-kind-not-because-I’m-angry-and-contrarian, and the kids stagger to their feet. “Redwing scanned the rest of the building. No other life forms.” Bucky nods: it’s time to go.

A few of them trip into Bucky on their way out, and he forces his face into what he remembers nice, happy smiles feeling like - the kinda smile he saved for Becca and Judith and Ruthie - and those kids tentatively smile back, one taking his hand as he walks towards the exit.

That child tugs on his hand and points demonstratively to the corner: there’s two small ones, maybe five or six, curled around each other, and Bucky walks to them quickly and scoops them up before kneeling and jerking his head so three of the ambulatory ones climb on his back, their fingers digging into kevlar (and he really hopes they don’t find a gun or a knife back there) and where the joints of his body armor meet around his shoulders and sides.

He jogs the rest of the way to follow Sam out, a stream of children behind him, and one in his arms.

Sam turns when they’re a quarter mile out from the building, his face somber before cracking into a grin. “I wish I had a camera.”

Bucky, to be fair, is dripping with children.

“Nyuk, nyuk, nyuk,” he mutters. “Laugh it up.”

There’s the sound of blades cutting through air, and Bucky tilts his head back to watch one of the smaller quinjets zip by. The lights that search out from under the jet shine on them for a moment before they begin their descent as they go to land half a mile ahead of them, and one of the kids on Bucky’s back buries his face into Kevlar. 

“We’ll wait for them to come to us,” Sam suggests, gesturing at the kids to sit down. Many of them do, clearly exhausted from the short walk over, and Bucky has half a mind to go and blow up the lab _\-- just in case, anyway_ \-- before the ground shakes; the back of his neck heats up from a flare of light, and Bucky turns in time to see part of the lab collapse.

“Told you it was rigged,” Bucky says mildly.

Sam chucks a protein bar at his head; Bucky manages to catch it without dropping one of the sick kids and opens it with his teeth. 

There’s a few moments of quiet where they can hear a few of the kids crying, from confusion and exhaustion and sickness and pain, before Sam says, quietly enough that Bucky’s super-hearing is the only reason he can hear it: “You did a good thing.”

Bucky shrugs, uncomfortable at the tone in Sam’s voice. “One bad guy getting away isn’t so bad, considering.”

“Considering.” Sam smiles at a kid who shifts to get more uncomfortable on Bucky, and resigns himself to standing still while they wait for the extraction team to show up. “You and Cap ever do something like this?”

He thinks about some of the places they went into, the men they liberated, the children they saved. His throat is unfairly tight: he wishes Sam wouldn’t talk about Steve so casually.

“Shit, I shouldn’t have-”

“No,” Bucky says, cutting Sam off before it gets even more awkward. “Similar. But. Nothing quite like this.”

He thinks of farms in southern France, of soft, warm hands in the dark, of the flash of blue eyes in the moonlight. His body is defenseless against the wave of images, and he grinds his heel into the ground of modern, eastern Europe to distract himself. 

It doesn’t work, of course, but then Hill’s team shows up, and the kids are disentangled from his arms, and Sam claps him on the arm before going to take some photographs for the papers.

Bucky tilts his head up, drifting in this between time: after fighting, before going back to Brooklyn; after his mind is busy, before his mind feels empty. The moon is full over this little country, and the grass turns to silver around him. Blood turns black on the ground, dripping from the knife wound he took early in the fight and didn’t report to Sam.

It’ll heal by tomorrow. Scar, maybe, if he doesn’t take care of it. 

The wind drags some of his sweaty, matted hair off his neck, and Bucky closes his eyes, imagining he can feel moonbeams on his face the way he used to feel sunlight, sitting on the pier at the edge of Brooklyn, nothing but the ocean before him, and his best friend next to him, laughing at the split cone they’d splurged on, sugar-milk running down their forearms and mixing with the dirt and sweat forever-packed on their elbows.

It’s a million miles away from that pier, Bucky knows, and infinite lifetimes besides. That best friend is gone, even if that pier might not be, but here in the cool moonlight, silver-soft against his cheek and on his brow, Bucky can linger in a moment longer than the gap that’s widened between him and that moment, and that boy, and that ocean which stirred beneath their feet and churned for the first time in his gut when he watched his best friend lick melted ice cream from the webbing of his right hand.

He’d wanted to -

 _But, no._ They might as well be someone else’s memories now. If Bucky’s learned anything from his talks with Shuri, his rabbi, and his therapists, it’s that some memories can’t help you if you dwell in them and don’t move on. Some memories are worth letting go of before they can hurt you.

Bucky stands in this little field in a country he doesn’t even know the name of, and feels the memory - sun on his face, small body tucked into his side, blonde hair heated like wire in the sunlight - slip between his hands, dripping from the tips of his fingers, melted-ice and salt-water grief that nestles into grass and turns black in the moonlight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU FOR READING! Seriously, thank you!!! I hope you enjoyed, and please let me know if this fic is something you'd be interested in for the long-haul: I could honestly write as little as 25k or as much as 100k plus on this, whoops.
> 
> (also if there are other fake!Steve fics out there I'd love to read them!!! I tried to search for them on the filter while I was planning this and oddly came up with not much - maybe an issue with a search term??!)


	2. the mill-wheels/rust, and the weirs fall slowly to pieces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky struggles to adapt to his new normal in the wake of the final battle with Thanos; memories of Steve and the war keep cropping up to distract him from his goal of moving on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!! Thank you to everyone who left kudos and/or a comment and left a bookmark! It was so encouraging, and I'm glad some folks are interested in this so far!!!
> 
> Here's another chapter, mainly a look into Bucky's life and how he's feeling about Steve (Hint: betrayed, angry, sad, etc)
> 
> **Warnings**  
>  Bucky dissociates after the mission from Chapter One  
> Bucky struggles with his identity and often feels non-human from his recovery from brainwashing/time as the soldier  
> Bucky goes to therapy  
> Bucky comes out to a trusted friend who responds well  
> Continued negative thoughts and self-hatred/doubt from Bucky POV

“Hey, man.”

Bucky looks up from the ground; he’s been folded up in this stupid little chair for half an hour now, his leg bouncing so fast it might as well be vibrating. “Hey,” he greets Sam roughly.

He’s exhausted from the fight and starving and his eyes are gritty and his throat parched from dehydration. 

_Soldier operating suboptimally. Maintenance required. Report to conditioning-_

Bucky blinks rapidly, trying to swallow around the panic in his throat. Sam taps the wall and gives him a once-over. “You good?’

He nods. Not sure if words will work right now. 

“Fury wants to talk to you, but I can tell him if it’s a bad time. I really, really can.”

_Report to conditioning-_

It’s pretty fucked, that the idea of talking to an authority figure seems more doable than going to a Jamba Juice or taking a nap right now. “I can do that.” 

Sam’s gaze is impenetrable, and then he jerks his head. “C’mon then.”

Dragging his sorry ass out of the too-small chair, Bucky shuffles after Sam, his head bowed. To his surprise, Sam doesn’t lead him all the way into the room; he stands at his side and walks in with him, nudging him with an elbow when it’s time for him to look up.

Nick Fury’s permanently irritated face glares down at him from a large screen. “Sergeant Barnes.”

“Fury.” Bucky nods politely and forces himself to make eye contact. He’s a human. He’s allowed to make eye contact. He’s human. He’s a person.

“You’re a hell of a soldier Barnes, anyone ever tell you that?” Fury says calmly, and Bucky fights the urge to vomit.

“Sir.” Sam speaks up at his side. “What did you want to talk to Barnes about?” He turns to Bucky, frowning. “You haven’t eaten since before the fight, and if your metabolism is anything like Rogers, you need calories, like, six hours ago.”

Bucky nods, grateful to not have to speak, but glad Sam’s talking to him and not over him.

“Understood. We’d hate to have the Winter Soldier hangry.” Fury chortles to himself, and Bucky swallows back more bile. He wants to sleep. He wants food. He wants to sink into the floor. He wants the cha-

Sam leans into his side briefly, and it’s a shock to his system, the contact of warmth, soft but still purposeful. 

“Sergeant, your work today with Captain America was commendable, and more commendable considering you’re still working as an auxiliary agent in these fights. Have you ever considered officially registering with the government as an Avenger?”

“I-” Bucky’s voice is hollow, like it was when Steve found him. “I don’t-”

“Good benefits. Health care, access to Stark-Tech-”

“Can’t,” Bucky whispers, staring at the wall just below the screen. “Sorry.”

“You assuredly can. You’ve been cleared of your crimes, Barnes, it was one of the last things Steve Rogers did before he went into official retirement. As far as the people of the United States are concerned, you’re James Buchanan, born in 1993, gained freak powers during the Snap. We rewound time for you, Barnes. You’re welcome to join up now, no strings attached.”

 _There are always strings,_ he wants to say. He shakes his head though, and Sam’s eyes are a physical presence on his body.

“Sir, respectfully, I think this might be a better conversation to have down the road. Barnes is working just fine as an associate of mine, and I will continue to clear it with you when he joins me on missions.”

“Alright.” Fury doesn’t sound pleased, but he also doesn’t seem to want to continue the conversation, either. “You do that, Wilson. Good job today, either way. Over and out.”

The screen goes blank, and Bucky feels his jaw trembling. Sam sighs and slaps a protein bar into Bucky’s chest. “Please eat that. I thought I gave you one in the field.”

Bucky takes it with shaking fingers - _Soldat, control yourself_ \- and then forces his fingers to steady. “Thought you threw that at my head,” he counters casually, barely a tremor in his voice.

Sam snorts. “That’s where your mouth is, isn’t it?” He rams his shoulder into Bucky’s playfully on his way out the door. “Let’s get going, I gotta drive down to D.C. and see my mom after I drop you off.”

The drive from the compound to Bucky’s apartment in Brooklyn takes a while, but he rests his head against the window and watches the outside world change from rolling green hills -- scars jagged and black and awful carved into the ground here and there -- to houses -- some missing, some under construction, shelled-out cars -- to the bridge, to eventually rows of brownstones, some as caved-in and cavernous as he’d seen in London after the Blitz.

He closes his eyes and listens to Sam’s music (he wouldn’t admit it under torture, but Sam has decent taste in music) as they drive through Brooklyn, and when they pull up in front of the little apartment he’s been living in - _sixteen cameras, three neighbors who work for SHIELD, little old lady (clear, owns shotgun), four emergency protocols installed in the wall_ \- Sam gets out with him after finding a parking spot close to the building.

“Gotta use the bathroom,” Sam explains, scooting past him when he opens the door, and Bucky heads into the bedroom to change out of his tactical gear. 

He plays some random music on the untrackable, metal arm-proof phone Shuri built for him, feeling more real as he rips the kevlar gloves from his hand, the vest dropping to the floor, the pants peeled off. He folds everything with military precision - something Uncle Sam taught him, not Hydra - and pulls out soft pajama pants (with little falcons on them because Sam Is A Dick) and a t-shirt, ruffling his hair to shake some of the garbage out.

Showering will happen later. When he has the energy.

Just as he’s feeling more human, the song changes, and freezing water pours up his spine and fills his lungs. Trumpets, violins and -

 _“We’ll meet again, don’t know where, don’t know when-”_ Vera Lynn sings wistfully, and Bucky lurches back in time, grabbing onto the nearest object trying to stop the fall.

_“-but I know we’ll meet again, some sunny day-”_

_“Just like that.” Steve’s hand was on his waist, big and encompassing. “Perfect.”_

_“Gonna spin me like a dame, Rogers?” Bucky asked, dropping his eyes to the ground, trying to joke, trying to play it off -_

_Steve gently guided him through a spin, and Bucky went willingly, swallowing back tears. This wasn’t fair._

_“Listen, Buck,” Steve began when he was facing him again, “I’ve been thinking after - about what you said-”_

_“Who taught you how to dance?” Bucky asked, changing the topic._

_“Few of the girls on the tour, but_ Buck,” _he could hear the grand ol’ sigh in Steve’s voice, and he wanted to grit his teeth into it, but he sunk into its familiarity. “Buck, let’s dance, huh? No fighting. Just dancing.”_

_Bucky nodded and tightened his grip on Steve’s hand. “Yeah.”_

_“Keep smiling through, just like you always do - ‘til the blue skies -_

_“-drive the dark clouds far away,” Steve sang softly, out-of-tune as ever._

_It made Bucky smile and blush like a girl on her first date. He was glad the serum didn’t fix that._

_“C’mon Buck.” Steve pleaded, something he never did. “Can we have this for right now?”_

_“Yeah.” Bucky agreed, feeling drowsy and safe for once in Steve’s arms - safe like he hadn’t been since Azzano. “Yeah, we can have this.”_

_“That’s it.” Steve hushed him softly, bringing his big, stupid hand from Bucky’s waist to the back of his head; he guided Bucky to rest on Steve’s shoulder, and his nose was pressed against Steve’s neck, smelling, insanely enough, of clean laundry, and soap, and sunshine even all the way out here in the woods, god-knew-where in the middle of the night._

_He could hear Steve’s heartbeat, strong-and-real-and-so-much-more-than-it-was pound away under his cheek and Bucky relaxed further into the sound, not caring for a moment how bad this was all going to hurt in the morning._

_They swayed quietly under the trees, behind the tents._

_So wrapped up in each other, neither noticed Falsworth and Morita walking through the trees at the edge of the encampment where the men were laughing and singing along with Vera, searching for the Captain and his sergeant. Jim saw first and elbowed James, pointing so he could see, a hundred feet away in the dark, the sight of the two men pressed together more intimately than friendship might allow, Steve’s hand clutching the material at the small of Bucky’s back, and Bucky’s lips nearly brushing Steve’s neck, his hand gripping Steve’s upper arm to keep him close._

_Falsworth’s smile was slightly pained, and he elbowed Morita back and turned around to face the encampment._

_“-We’ll meet again,” Falsworth sang loudly, and Jim nodded, joining in, keeping watch so the Captain could have this moment, “don’t know where, don’t know when - but I know we’ll meet again, some sunny day-”_

“Bucky?”

Sam’s voice yanks him back forward, and Bucky looks over guiltily at him.

Something hits his foot, hot, wet - He’s crying.

“Sorry.” He goes to wipe his face quickly, releasing the bedframe he’d gripped when he heard the song. There’s the sound of protest, and he sees that he’s left dents in the metal frame, hand-shaped and echoing with grief.

“Don’t be-” Sam sighs and crosses the room, shutting the music off. The silence settles heavily over them, but it’s better than that song.

Bucky sits on the edge of the bed, arm cradling his side where the scar tissue still aches. He stares at the floor, more tears coming; he pushes them away stubbornly.

After a minute or two like that, Sam speaks again, over by the dresser. “Have you talked to him at all?”

The window might not cost too much money to replace if he jumps through it. He considers it for half a minute before Sam clears his throat and tries again. 

“I … went and saw him. Been a few times, actually. He’s healthy, but he gets confused sometimes. I think he misses you.”

“Huh.” Bucky lets out a grunt and shrugs. 

“It might be good for …. For him to see someone he knew when he was younger. He talks about Brooklyn sometimes, but it’s jumbled. Like there’s pieces to a puzzle he can’t solve-”

“Sam.” It costs him everything for that one syllable, and he expands his deficit further by gritting out: “Don’t.”

“Right.” Sam nods and steps away from the dresser. “Right. Um. I’m gonna let myself out, okay? Take care of yourself, Barnes.”

“See ya,” Bucky whispers when Sam hits the door.

“See you around,” Sam responds. “Don’t … don’t sit here stewing longer than you have to, alright? Set a timer or something.”

“Right.” Bucky’s lips twitch because he knows Sam needs to see him smile or smirk or move before he leaves, but he’s still staring at the floor as Sam exits, his door automatically locking behind him.

“Shuri?” Bucky asks softly, the phone lighting up at the sound of its software name - a real middle finger to Apple, Bucky might think if he had the energy. “Can you - play the last song, please.”

“Got it, White Wolf!” Shuri’s voice, auto-modulated and pre-recorded chirps back. Bucky closes his eyes and pretends he’s in Wakanda in 2017 and his friend is at his side, poking at his arm and chatting away with him about the feisty goat that keeps trying to barge in on their sessions.

Trumpets. Violins. And-

_“We’ll meet again, don’t know where, don’t know when-”_

Bucky’s lips tremble as he forms the words. “But I know we’ll meet again, some sunny day.”

He buries his face in his face in his hands and weeps bitterly as the song plays on.

* * *

“Before our next session, I’d like you to try noticing any thoughts where you think of yourself as not deserving of something essential - like food, or sleep, or water - and tell yourself that you do. You can even think of it as spite if you need to - put that voice onto someone’s face that you don't like, and then do whatever _they_ don’t want you to do.”

“Wilco, doc.” Bucky smiles weakly at his SHIELD-mandated therapist (he feels better, knowing that she’s packing). “Only problem is, that’s a lotta faces to choose from.”

“I’m sure.” Wendy smiles at him, and Bucky picks at the pillow on his lap. “One last thing - your hair looks nice. Can I ask what inspired it?”

Bucky runs his flesh hand through the buzz at the base of his skull; it’s longer in the front and flops over his eyes unless he styles it.

That’s something he’s enjoyed doing: trying different beauty products that Wanda, Shuri, and even Clint’s daughter have sent him. He’s got some kinda expensive mousse in it right now, and it smells a lot better than the shit he put on it in the 30s.

“Guess it was time for a change,” he says softly, and Wendy nods and smiles before wrapping up the session.

He heads out into midtown Manhattan, hands in his pockets as he walks down the street. It’s hard to walk in public like this - noise everywhere, a thousand people, everyone talking and shouting and laughing and _loud_ and _exposed_ but - he can blend in.

No one gives him more than a glance as he walks down the street in a nondescript grey jacket and loose jeans. 

There on the horizon, Avengers Tower - now Stark Memorial Tower - looms, and Bucky glances at the time and then smiles.

He pulls his phone out and dials quickly, glancing up and down the street as he pauses to talk.

“Hey, kid. You hungry?”

Twenty minutes later, Wanda walks down the street towards him, her dark red hair caught on the wind here and there. Now that it’s September, cool breezes have turned sharp and almost-brittle, the trees tipped with red and orange and brown. She’s serious and quiet as she walks, but when she catches sight of him, she lifts a hand and looks, momentarily, twenty-years-old again.

“Bucky.” She walks right up to him and right into him, and Bucky wraps his arms around her without thinking about it, the plates in his left arm shifting to calibrate so he doesn’t crush her (not that Scarlet Witch would _let_ him crush her, but it’s an unpleasant thought all the same).

“Wanda. When’s the last time you ate?” He releases her from the hug so she can roll her eyes at him - and he’s absolutely _gobsmacked_ at how much she looks like Becca when she does that.

“I ate.”

“When?”

They walk shoulder-to-shoulder down the street, people sidling over to make room for their purposeful stride, casting slightly fearful glances at Bucky whose eyes have started roving again, more on-edge with someone he cares about next to him.

It makes him want to laugh that they’d think of him as the threat in the pair: Wanda’s a thousand times more powerful than he is, and then some.

“Yesterday,” Wanda admits. “I’ve been feeling … strange. Getting lost in my head a lot.”

“What’s wrong?” Bucky frowns, already worried from the tone of her voice.

“Tremors in the universe,” Wanda whispers, her eyes distant as they approach their destination. “Something - shaking my sight. Warping everything, pulling at - at some point in the middle of it all, like a hole that shouldn’t be there that’s tugging at the whole thing.”

“Thanos?” Bucky asks, his stomach cold from the name.

Wanda shakes her head. “Different. He’s - he’s gone.”

Bucky holds open the door of the deli for her, and Wanda heads to a table in the back corner while he goes to order pastrami on rye for them to split. He could eat six by himself, but he’s more concerned about getting calories into her right now.

“Thanks, Sal.” Bucky taps the sandwich on the counter and nods at the wizened deli owner. 

“Extra pickle, for your sister,” Sal says, waving over at Wanda, who smiles and waves back.

Bucky pretends it doesn’t hurt to hear someone casually refer to Wanda as his sister - he’s never met Pietro, never will, but he isn’t sure if Wanda really wants a replacement for someone who was half of her for so long - and heads to their table.

It’s their regular seat, way in the corner so Bucky’s back can be to the wall and his eyes can note all three exits and potential entries. 

He unwraps the sandwich when he sits down and spreads the halves apart, tapping Wanda’s half towards her as well as the three pickle spears.

“I know you like pickles,” Wanda says, a hint of amusement in her voice. “You should have one.”

“Nah. Don’t need ‘em.” Bucky takes a bite of sandwich that would have made Steve proud. The thought of him makes the pastrami go down like chewed glass, and he takes a sip of water to clear it out. “Doc says I gotta watch my sodium.”

“Impossible.” Wanda rolls her eyes but eats one in two bites anyway.

They chat aimlessly about their days - Wanda’s enrolled in online university and seems to be enjoying her study of history and philosophy, and Bucky shoots the shit as well as he can about missions with Sam (the unclassified parts, anyway, he doesn’t want her in any trouble) and about the alleycat that’s starting to trust him.

He’s halfway through a story about luring the ratty little thing out with a piece of chicken on a string when his phone buzzes.

“Shit, sorry, thought I turned it off.” Bucky pulls it out and clicks it silent when he sees Maria Hill’s number flash on the screen. 

If she needs him, she definitely can find him. He’s not stupid enough to believe that the guy studying the menu in the corner is anyone who’d normally walk into a tiny deli in Manhattan any day of the week.

“Is it about Steve?” Wanda asks, small hand covering her mouth as she chews a bite of food. There’s zero pickles left, and only a few bites missing from her half of the sandwich, but he’ll count this as a small victory.

He’s coming to appreciate small victories more.

“What?” Bucky swallows and shakes his head, pocketing the phone. “Nah. Hill probably needs me on something, maybe a security detail for some big-shot. That’s usually it. Anyway, so I even got as far as _meowing,_ you know, like a complete jerk, and -”

“Have you figured out what happened to him?” Wanda pokes at her sandwich a little and leans back, her arms wrapped around her slender frame. She tucks her chin into her chest and sniffs a little. “Because … I - I can’t tell.”

“What?” Bucky frowns. “Whaddya mean you can’t-”

“He’s - out there, but I don’t know where. I don’t - I don’t believe for a _second_ that he’s dead.” She leans forward, face lit with ferocity. “They can sell whatever lie they want on television, but you and I know he isn’t dead.” 

“He’s gone,” Bucky says flatly. “I know that much.” He taps his fingers against the tabletop, refusing to meet Wanda’s eyes.

“I thought if anyone, you would care,” she whispers. “Because ….” she leans forward.

Bucky lifts his eyebrows and his chin to look at her. “Because _what_.”

“Because you were his -” she pauses, clearly thinking something over. “Because you love him.”

“I did love him,” Bucky agrees amiably, his jaw working over a tic as he tries to keep nonchalant. “We grow up like brothers, you read the textbooks, but it’s-”

“I’m not stupid.” Wanda’s eyes narrow. “I saw you two. I saw _him_ when you were frozen. And before that, when he was searching for you. Crossbones said your name to him - _Bucky_ \- and it was like,” She snaps her fingers, “The whole world fell apart around him. Names have power, I know that, but your name, to Steve - it meant everything.”

“Nah.” Bucky shakes his head, blinking away tears. “I mean, it mighta - for me, maybe, but for him - it - it wasn’t like that. We were close is all-”

“It _was_ like that for him,” Wanda insists, and Bucky eyes the agent in the corner, wondering if he’s picking up on Bucky’s shitty body language. “It was, and I don’t mean to do this here, but he wouldn’t want you out in the world thinking that he didn’t-”

Bucky laughs bitterly, and Wanda stops talking. 

“If Steve Rogers has any sense at all - and yeah, that’s askin’ a lot - he ended up right where he shoulda been, 1946, in the arms of Agent Carter, makin’ packs of strong, pretty babies.” Bucky picks at a sugar packet that’s been lying on the table. “With any luck, they’ll have her brain-”

“Stop it.” Wanda demands, and he does stop, the words clogging in his throat like an wad of wet paper. He blinks rapidly and stares at the table. “Bucky - Steve _loved_ you-”

“Not like I loved him,” Bucky snaps. “Not like - it wasn’t _like_ that for him, he had eyes for Carter, both of ‘em, I guess.” He shakes his head. “Oy.” Wiping a hand across his nose, he mumbles, “It wasn’t like that for him, on account of - well, the thing is,” the words screech to a halt in his throat.

“The thing is _what_?” Wanda prods gently, and Bucky snorts, knowing she could pry the words out of his head easier than anything with zero permission.

Scares him shitless that he could. Makes him like her that she refuses.

“I’m gay,” Bucky whispers, tears in his eyes. He’s mortified, but Wanda doesn’t react.

After a moment she says. “Okay.” Her hands cover both of his, and the shaking slows slightly. “And?”

“And Steve wasn’t,” Bucky says miserably. “I’m gay, and he was _it,_ and - and he’s gone, a-and.” He shakes his head. “C-can’t talk about it.”

“Okay.” Wanda leaves her hands on his, and leaves the topic alone for now.

He sniffles for a few miserable seconds and Wanda stands to get him some more water. Sipping it, a thought occurs to him, silly enough to make him chuckle around a mouthful of water.

“What?”

“Nothin’ really, only-” Bucky laughs and looks up at her, his cheeks warm with embarrassment. “Never said those words out loud before.”

Her smile is wry but pleased. “Never?”

“No, never, not a soul.” He shakes his head. “I’m gay,” he tries again, a stupid smile on his face. “Gay! I’m - I’m very gay-”

“That’s nice dear,” says a little old lady - Miriam - on her way to the bathroom. He nods respectfully at her, still grinning stupidly.

“You are gay,” Wanda says serenly. “Now what?”

“Now-” Bucky thinks about it and then grins. “Dessert?”

“You should come out more often,” Wanda encourages, lighting up at the prospect of sweets. Bucky grins and stands up, gesturing for her to follow.

They head outside and walk into the wind, leaning into each other, laughing grandly at something neither can name, but, for the time being, warm against the growing chill.

* * *

_Steve,_

_~~Hope you’re well~~ _

_Actually, no I don’t. I don’t know what I hope, other than hoping I’ll wake up tomorrow to realize this was all another cosmic joke played on me. I get tired of hearing your name in other people’s mouths, but I also get tired of the shape left in conversations when they don’t talk about you._

_Before you left, you told me that the line had gotten longer. Said the whole world was stretched out before us, and I needed to pick a place for us to go when you got back. Said you had something to tell me._

_I wonder if you were trying to fool me or yourself. Either way, consider me fooled._

_Now I wonder if they serve decent food in that fancy old folks’ home they stashed you away in. I bet you’re a real bastard now that you look your age._

_I was talking to the kid today - and fuck you for leaving her too - and I told her almost everything. Well. Some of everything. Got to thinking about all those dates I went on back in the day, where I'd take a pretty dame out for a dance, and she'd smell nice, and look nice, and I could get any doll I wanted in the city. Because they knew I was a safe bet. No funny business with Barnes. Maybe a kiss and a nice dance and he'll take ya home, simple and easy. It took me forever to think about why that might be. Why I could talk to those girls and not go crazy like all those fellas claimed they did when they took their girl out._

_But then I'd come home to you, and you'd have charcoal caked under your fingernails, and you'd be coughin' up a storm, and I'd lie down on our shitty little sofa and you'd do something like read the baseball scores outta the paper. And I about lost my mind, every time, Stevie. I'd lose my mind listening to your voice, completely crazy for anything you said._

_I love you so much it makes me wanna scream. Fuck you._

_Yours, forever, because one of us isn’t a liar,_

_Bucky._

“Well, that didn’t make me feel better at all,” Bucky mumbles, glaring down at the piece of paper. The ink’s drying quickly, and he watches each drop of it sink into the paper before he folds it up.

Sam, with best intentions he’s sure, left the address of Steve’s nursing home on the counter last time he was here. Bucky, out of respect for Sam, looked at it before throwing it away. It’s committed to memory now, but Bucky doesn’t tuck his letter into an envelope.

He pulls his backpack out from its hiding place and pulls out a journal - the one he kept in Bucharest, the real one, not the one Steve found, the one that was for putting things together. 

This is the one where he writes down everything he’s feeling. Not clumps of memories and years of guilt, but how he actually feels day-to-day. 

Say what you want about Sharon Carter - she was decent enough to give it back to him in Berlin, not a single page missing. 

Bucky flips the journal open to the back and tucks the letter away before flipping to the front of the journal. He traces over something he wrote in 2017 in Wakanda -

_-do you think about France because it’s all I can think about, how you tasted -_

\- and then he closes the journal and sits for a long time with it in his hands, metal thumb smoothing over worn-down leather as the sunlight crawls across the bedroom, stealing away the day and what’s left of his energy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Bucky will finally visit "Steve" .... and, maybe we'll get a POV from real Steve ...
> 
> Thank you so so so much for reading - I really hope you're enjoying it! Please let me know and let me know any theories or shared conspiracies about Endgame!Steve!!


	3. the sun going down in the mouths of the furnaces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky gets some advice on the first day of Rosh Hoshanah, and spends the next ten days doing good and seeking atonement. 
> 
> However, his last visit doesn't go easily when the person he loves most in the world doesn't even seem to realize he's real. It all feels - wrong, and strange, and Bucky doesn't want to feel that way because it isn't fair to himself or to Steve, but ...
> 
> perhaps something is amiss after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO I am sorry for the two week wait, been fighting off some weird headaches and it made it hard to write things that weren't already mostly written.
> 
> That being said, I hope you enjoy this chapter. _Disclaimer_ I am not Jewish, I am a guilt-ridden, angry as heck Irish Catholic much like Steve Rogers, but Bucky is Jewish in this fic, and this chapter focuses on Rosh Hashanah and the lead up to Yom Kippur. A HUGE thank you to beccaboom who checked and double-checked my scenes with Bucky's rabbi, and some of the larger points of Bucky's journey to repentance in this chapter. I am always happy to learn, so if you think I could have done something better, please tell me.
> 
>  **warnings**  
>  Bucky struggles with depression and self-loathing, as per the past chapters.  
> Steve (Real Steve) is in a state that might cause paranoia // the reality around him is collapsing and things are distorted and fake

“If you cut off one head, two will--”

Sam kicks the raving Hydra goon off the side of a building and watches him drop dispassionately. 

“You gonna-” Bucky gestures vaguely to the air as shrill screams echo up between the buildings. Sam checks his comms and shrugs.

“If Redwing’s right, then she’s right; if she’s wrong, she’s wrong. I don’t know what to tell you.” Sam folds up his wings and clears his throat, eyes still tracking his comms. “Three. Two. O-”

The screams cut off and then become loud yelling, and the low-life would-be Nazi soars into the distance towards Stark Tower. Sam watches him go, drumming his fingers on a knife strapped to his hip. Bucky smirks but still feels a little shaky as he stands on Sam’s left, and then Sam turns to him with a small sigh - he knows what’s coming.

“You okay?”

“I’m not gonna fall apart every time we see one of these assholes.” Bucky dodges the real question, and Sam of course gives it another go.

“I’m sure, and I didn’t think you would, but he said-”

“I know what he said.”

“Bucky.” Sam’s look is next-level, Sarah-Rogers-adjacent shit. Bucky squirms in his combat boots, feeling twelve years old again with a bloody-nosed Steve hiding behind him. “I was with Steve before Berlin. I know what those words mean.”

He looks away from Sam and swallows a bitter taste in his mouth. “Then you should know that Shuri took them out of my head.” His lips tremble as he forces a smile. “I’m fine.”

“Just because the triggers are gone doesn’t mean you can hear them and feel  _ fine _ after.” Sam touches his shoulder lightly, and Bucky doesn’t move to brush him off, only glances down at the rifle in his hands and pretends to fiddle with something. “Maybe you should skip debrief.”

He thinks about sitting with Nick Fury, thinks about interrogating the swine Sam drop-kicked off the building, thinks about Azzano, thinks about Zola, thinks about  _ ready to comply,  _ and-

“Yeah. Maybe I will head home.”

They aren’t far from Brooklyn, and Sam sees him in a taxi before jetting off towards Midtown. 

Bucky isn’t sure how the next eight hours work after he gets out of the taxicab - he understands he took his tactical gear off, understands that he stored his gun after cleaning it, understands that he drank six liters of water with electrolytes mixed in, understands that he’s on the couch wearing a sweat-stained shirt and boxers, curled up under three blankets.

He understands that those things happened, he just doesn’t remember them happening. 

His blanket’s pulled up to his chin when his phone buzzes four times - he glances down at the screen without moving a muscle and sees that he has two missed calls from Sam, three texts from Wanda, a voicemail from Maria, and a few Instagram updates of accounts he follows, all accounts of dogs or cats.

What? He’s human, after all. 

Bucky swallows past the weird taste in his mouth and throat, and then excavates an arm from blanket mountain to grab his phone. He half-heartedly texts Wanda back so the kid won’t worry, sends Sam a picture of his legs under the blanket, making sure to get Dorothy from Golden Girls in the frame, and almost listens to Maria’s voicemail.

Somewhere at the end of all that energy expenditure, he notes the date. 

September 15. 

Fuck.

Bucky pinches the bridge of his nose and exhales loudly for ten seconds before groaning and thrashing his limbs so the blankets fall on the floor; somehow he drags his sorry ass to the bathroom and showers, scrubbing down for what feels like the first time all week (thinking back, yeah, probably the first time that week) and when he steps out onto the bathroom rug - a cute little otter that Wanda had found and Bucky had pretended to hate - he glares at himself through the fogged up mirror. 

Reluctantly, he picks up the razor and shaves his stubble, rubbing his jaw when it’s bare and stinging.

If he turns his body and looks dead on in the mirror, he - well, he doesn’t look too different from 1943, his eyes more haunted, the shadows under them deeper, his muscles enhanced, some lines in his forehead and around his eyes. But, he looks thirty, not a hundred and six; Bucky grasps the sink and tries to breathe through the swarm of panic that wants to drag him down. 

When he lets go, there are cracks in the porcelain, and he pretends not to notice as he exits the bathroom and goes back to his Golden Girls marathon, his mind buzzing as he contemplates the next morning.

* * *

The synagogue empties around him, and Bucky stays seated, his leg bouncing. Every time he closes his eyes, he sees - well he sees what his imagination wants him to see, filling in the blanks electric shock and freezing dug out in his brain. His breathing feels shallow -  _ asset suboptimal, requesting maintenance  _ \- and he tries to calm it, but mostly ends up hissing through his teeth.

When there’s only one person left, Bucky has a sudden desire to bolt, but he’s been lingering at the back for a reason. Sure enough, that person comes and sits down in front of him, turning to face him with a kind smile.

“Hello, Yakov.”

“Rabbi.” Bucky nods and pretends it doesn’t feel like his head is going to wobble off from shaking. “How are you?”

“I’m doing well, thank you. But, we know you aren’t here to make small talk. Tell me what’s on your mind.”

Jacob Feldman is 85 years old. He survived the Great Depression, all the disasters of the following decades, the Snap - he grew up three houses over from Bucky.

He remembers the day Jacob was born. He remembers going to his bris. He remembers his mother, a kind and intelligent woman who helped Winifred out more times than Bucky could count.

“I’m sure you could guess, given the day.” Bucky goes for a smile and fails. “Given what you know about me.”

Rabbi Feldman is one of the few civilians who know Bucky’s real identity. Felt wrong to lie to him.

“You’ve come here to ask about repentance.” His rabbi nods and taps his hand on the back of his seat. “You carry a heavy burden, Yakov. Your heart is tired from it.”

“So tired - you have no idea-” Bucky wipes a hand down his face and slumps forward. “Is it - is it  _ stupid  _ of me to think that - that I could atone? For all the blood on my hands, for everything I’ve done to this world.”

“What happened to you was as much a tragedy as what happened to those you hurt. You weren’t in control-”

“There were times when I was myself.” Bucky’s jaw trembles. “I should have done more, I should have - I tried to run a few times when I snapped to, but - I couldn’t-”

“We’ve had this argument how many times now?” Feldman chuckles, and Bucky tilts his head in acknowledgement. “It’s only natural that you feel consumed by this today, of all days. It’s only natural that you feel horror from what you can and cannot remember. But these days ahead of us, this is when you can make a difference, and to feel the burden lifted.”

“I might need more than ten days,” Bucky mumbles, and that earns him a half-amused, half-stern look. 

He tries to smile again, but he feels his composure crumble, and tears leak down his cheeks. “I’m so - tired of feeling so angry,” he says raggedly. The rabbi waits patiently for him to continue. “I’m - I feel it choking me, all the time, and I can’t escape it-”

His sobs shake his frame, and to his surprise, Feldman leans forward and taps his metal arm gently across the aisle. 

“You have many gifts.” He opens his mouth to argue, but is hastily silenced. “You do. And those gifts have been used to create cruelty in the past, but you control your life now. Use those gifts to do good, to help others. That’s what the next ten days are for. The more you focus on the darkness you feel covering you, you aren’t going to find true repentance. You need to do  _ teshuvah _ , Yakov, not self-punishment.”

Bucky frowns. “I thought that’s what we were talking about?”

“No, you said you wanted to do repentance. I’m telling you to do teshuvah, meaning “return.” Return towards the light from which your soul originally came. When you are running towards the light, filling your life with more wisdom, more understanding, more mitzvahs; more joy, love and beauty; the light is getting brighter and brighter.”

He thinks about the last time his life felt bright, and can only think about a golden glow of hair against his shoulder. Bucky blinks and pushes the thought away.

“Then, when you can talk earnestly with the Maker, you’ll see that this grief you’ve carried with you is truly holding you up, making a wall around your heart. And you’ll throw it off, Yakov, and step further into the light, a free man. Then you can repent. Not from a place of hatred, but of love.”

Bucky shakes his head. “I might not ever get there-”

“That is certainly no reason to keep trying to hurt yourself. These are holy days, and shouldn’t be shrouded in darkness.  _ Light  _ should define these days. So, I ask you a question, Yakov - how will you find the light again?”

“I-” Bucky studies his hands, flesh and metal and thinks hard. “There are still people alive I can help. There are people who I need to do good for. People I love and care about - and people I don’t. They - they need kindness too.”

Rabbi Feldman smiles at him, his face wrinkled but still somehow youthful in its joy. “That sounds like a good use of your time. Dedicate these days to changing how you feel about yourself, and this world. And I think you’ll find that your soul is made of light, as much as it ever was.”

He squeezes Bucky’s arm once, firmly, before standing up and exiting, leaving Bucky alone in the synagogue; alone, and yet, strangely, un-lonely.

* * *

The next day, he calls Sam and after some mildly confused back-and-forth, Bucky finds himself walking uptown towards the VA. 

He sets up chairs, goes on coffee runs for the therapists running group sessions, and fixes some wiring (trying not to ask himself where he learned about electrical wiring from the 80s).

Sam doesn’t question it, and when Bucky looks him in the eyes at the end of the day and says, “I know I’m a dick to you sometimes, and I can act unappreciative, but - I appreciate you a lot, and I - I kinda like you. Sometimes. So I’m sorry for - being a dick to you,” Sam has the decency to not fly him out the window and drop him on top of the Statue of Liberty.

“Barnes, I hear you, and I can forgive you, but also - please let’s not do this much eye contact for another year.”

“That’s about the timeline I was working with, too,” Bucky says, and they rib each other out the door and into the sunset.

The next morning, Bucky goes up to a guy at the gym who he’s definitely flicked off in the mirror more than once - the guy’s a homophobic douchebag who uses a certain slur too often for Bucky’s taste - and he clears his throat.

“What?” The guy frowns at him, and Bucky points at his feet.

“You’re going to hurt your back.” Bucky might be quiet, but he knows he’s built like a brick shithouse, and the guy, thin and balding and tired-looking, eyes his arms for a second before nodding and shifting his stance. “Better. Don’t drop so low either. You’ll hurt your neck coming up.”

“You a professional lifter?” The guy asks after he gets through a set.

“No.” Bucky thinks about that time Steve lifted a helicopter and then tries not to think about it. He also thinks about how good it felt to talk to Wanda last week, and how there’s literally nothing that should physically scare him into silence, so he adds, “But I am gay, so, maybe watch your language, pal?”

The guy has the decency to turn red and he nods before mumbling, “I’m sorry.”

“And I’m sorry for laughing when you spilled that smoothie all over your car last week,” Bucky says genuinely.

“That was you?”

Bucky snorts and walks away, slipping his earbuds in. “Like I said. Sorry.” 

By the end of the two hours though, they’ve spoken twice more about form, and Bucky even waves at him on his way out the door.

As he jogs up his steps, a faint mew reaches his ears, and he changes route to poke his head around the side of the building. And there she is - tiny, trembling, yellow and dirty, angry beyond all belief.

“Here, kitty kitty,” Bucky says, holding his hand out and crouching down.

“Meow!” The kitten screams. Bucky smiles and holds his hand out farther. 

“Kitt, kitty, psspsspspss.”

He’s gotta look off his rocker to anyone walking by. 

“Kitty, kitty, hey -”

The tiny cat walks up to him, sniffing suspiciously, and then slips into his palm.

“Hey, there, sweet gal,” Bucky coos, holding her close to his chest. “Yowch!” The kitten’s little needle-sharp claws and teeth dig into the meat at the base of his thumb. “You little fucker-”

“Mew!”

“I’m gonna name you Stevie,” Bucky decides, his heart lurching as he walks back up the steps, eyeing the clouds overhead warily. “No, no connection whatsoever,” he says to no one at all.

* * *

Bucky’s hands tap a nervous rhythm on his wheel as he gazes out his windshield. He’d waited til day five of the ten to make this phone call, and was shocked when she invited him to come that afternoon. He’s even more shocked he wasn’t blown up when he crossed the property line, or attacked in some way when he hit the driveway.

After fifteen minutes of him stewing, the door of the house opens up, and she waves at him. Swallowing the remnants of his anxiety, Bucky focuses on what he can see - a pink playhouse with a workbench outside it, daisies planted along the pathway, the soft red hair framing her face - and gets out of the car.

“Hello, Mrs. Potts,” he says respectfully, staying behind the door as a last resort.

“Sergeant Barnes.” Pepper smiles at him and waves him forward with one manicured hand; the other’s grasping a Mason jar full of what looks like iced tea. “Come in!”

“I was surprised when you called me, Sergeant,” Pepper’s already whirling around the kitchen when he walks in and slips his shoes off at the door. “Oh, thank you!” She laughs when she sees what he’s doing. “Although, with a four year old, it’s not like mud’s a stranger to these floors.”

“Right.” Bucky’s lips twitch into a smile and he tucks his metal hand into his pocket nervously. 

A child’s artwork fills the walls, and toys and crafts are in boxes and on tables, leaving the floor clear. He can see a chore chart next to where a child’s height has been notched into the wall, and - well, it hurts. He knew it was going to hurt.

“Sit down, Sargeant-”

“You can call me James,” he says hoarsely, crossing the floor to sit at the table with Pepper, who smiles graciously - how the  _ hell  _ was she married to any spawn of Howard’s - 

Twin blades of pain in his heart now -

‘Ma’am,” he adds, settling in his chair and folding his hands in his lap.

“Now, I don’t want to seem - unenthused by your calling me today,” Pepper begins, leaning forward - gracious and warm still, but now oddly no-nonsense. “But you have to admit it came out of left field.”

“Not really,” Bucky counters before wincing and clearing his throat. “I mean - sorry - it’s just it’s Yom Kippur in a few days.”

“Oh.” Some tension in her face relaxes, and Pepper sits back with a more easy smile. “I see. And you called me for ... atonement? For, I’m sorry, but for what, exactly?”

“Everything.” Bucky shrugs miserably and then remembers what Rabbi Feldman said and sits up taller, looking around the joy that still exists in Pepper’s life, thinks about what he really wants to say. “For the suffering I caused you - and - and your husband. I can’t - I’m sorry if this sounds rude, but I can’t exactly atone for what happened with H-Howard,” and swallows, “And Maria - it eats me alive, you gotta believe me, it does, every day, but I don’t remember it happening.”

Pepper frowns, but her eyes are kind. “Then what are you apologizing for-

“It’s not so much about-” Bucky shakes his head and smiles at her, thoroughly exhausted from everything it took to come out here, before dropping his gaze to his hands. “I - I should have found a way to come clean to Sta - Tony. I should have made amends, should have … told Ste- Captain Rogers - to tell him, instead of hide behind him like I - I did there for a while.” He shakes his head, remembering that last, awful fight. “W-we almost - and he was - he was hurting. I know that’s why he tried to k- And … and then I helped to break his family, and … and I didn’t have a chance to ask his forgiveness when he was here, and - I’ll be sorry about that for the rest of my life.”

Bucky sets his jaw and looks Pepper in the face, surprised that her face is neutral, her head tilted like she’s listening to him. 

“I kept your husband from you for those weeks, and I nearly caused his death. I was a coward at his funeral to not talk to you then, and I’ve been a coward every day I haven’t called you to offer my condolences, or my help. You might - you might not want it, ma’am, but, I do want to offer it. Anything you need, I - I want to help. Because I know you’re a good woman, and your husband was a good man, and I very much want to honor his life.”

Pepper stands and sets her glass down; he figures this is the place where she throws the door open and tells him in no uncertain terms to get out.

Instead, she walks around the table and wraps her arms around him. His hands tremble as he goes to hold her arm against his chest, and her strawberry-blonde hair falls like a curtain over his shoulder. “Oh, James,” she says with a sad, tear-stained sigh. “You - you’re forgiven.”

He shakes his head. “It can’t be that easy,” he croaks, and why does this have to be so hard, “I hurt him - and you, and - it wasn’t  _ fair _ -” He can’t say  _ I should have been the one that died that day  _ because he can’t veer off that direction, he can’t hate himself and ask for her loving forgiveness at the same time-

“Shh.” Pepper holds him tighter, and Bucky cries then, silently, confused, as she holds him in the home her husband built for her, the husband she’ll never see again. “It wasn’t fair. For any of us. But we’re still here, and I forgive you - even if we know there’s a lot to do ahead of us.”

When he calms down a little, Pepper returns to her seat, her own face slightly blotchy and her eyes red. They exchange smiles, and then a small voice pipes up down the hallway.

“Mommy?” 

Bucky turns to see Morgan Stark walking towards them, rubbing her eyes with the back of a tiny hand. She sees Bucky and frowns in confusion, her eyes locked on his metal arm.

“Morgan,” Pepper holds her hand out to her daughter, and the little girl takes it, still peering intently at Bucky. “This is James. He’s a family friend.”

That hurts more than it should, but Bucky takes the hurt, takes it in with a breath and lets it back out on the next one.

“Are you a - superhero?” Morgan asks in a whisper, still eyeing that arm.

“I-” Bucky says with a nervous laugh.

“Yes!” Pepper says without hesitation. “Yes, he is. He’s the Winter Soldier.”

“Cool.” Morgan steps forward now with a grin. “Want to see my toys?”

“I don’t know-”

“I have a call with Milan in five,” Pepper says, holding up her phone. “Would you actually watch her for a little bit? Unless you have to go-”

“No,” Bucky’s bewildered at the show of trust, but figures Pepper Potts must know a lot of things, and she must know that unless Morgan randomly speaks Russian with the vocabulary of an adult, there’s little chance anything could happen. “No, I can - I can stay for a bit.”

“Thanks!” Pepper kisses Morgan on the head and then puts a hand at the small of her back and gives a little push. “You can show James your toys, Morgan, but I want you to play with the door open.” With a wry grin, she looks at James, “she’s going through a bossy stage. It’s as much for you as it is for her.”

Bucky finds himself dragged down the hallway to meet fifteen dinosaurs and a few Barbies, and honestly -

It’s one of the nicest afternoons he can recall.

The sun breaks through clouds towards the end of the half hour, as Morgan Stark zips an airplane by his head, and Bucky laughs uproariously at her bizarre, hard to follow chatter, and he accepts the flower crown from her dress-up box graciously. 

What happened with Tony still sits in his mind, but it’s smaller now, its edges rounded off, and it doesn’t feel like a weight, only another piece of the puzzle of who he is, and another motivation for how he wants to be. And he can live with that. He really can.

* * *

He shouldn’t have come here. 

His skin is itching as he walks down the hall - he’d saved this one for as long as possible, but it’s still terrifying, daunting beyond all belief. If Sam weren’t next to him, he’d jump out any of these nice, wide windows and make a break for it.

The nurse ahead of them gestures at an open door and smiles at them. “Visiting hours go ‘til three,” he says before heading down to the main nurse station. 

There’s a dozen people in here as they enter, all VIPs of American politics and former SHIELD executives and leaders. And, in the window, small and dozing and still, is a face that is familiar and isn’t, a face that is loved and isn’t.

Bucky swallows as Sam taps Steve on the arm, and he settles in the chair across from him, not wanting to loom over him like the Iron Curtain nightmare he might be in Steve’s dreams.

“Wha-” Steve startles awake, looking scared, and - God, that hurts to see. It hurts to see the bruises in the crook of his elbow from injections, hurts to see the inhaler in his curled fist.  _ This was a mistake  _ \- “Sam?”

“I brought another friend, Cap.” Sam pats his arm and then sits next to him, gesturing at Bucky. “Thought he might call bullshit on some of your war stories.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking ab-” Steve looks over and his eyes widen painfully. He looks panicked. “J- Bucky?”

“Heya, Steve.” Bucky manages a small half-wave, and his eyes dart imploringly to Sam. This has to be enough time, he can go now, he can run up the stairs and jump off the roof and disappear into the expansive woods behind the facility. Right?

“You haven’t aged a day,” Steve breathes, eyes taking him in. Bucky shrugs and avoids eye contact. “Have - have you seen Peggy?” He looks around, hope thrown into sharp relief on his features. “Is she here?”

“Shit.” Bucky’s chest clenches. “She - Stevie, she-”

“Agent Carter will be here soon.” Sam grips Steve’s forearm, and Steve nods, settling back down, his breathing still agitated. 

Bucky winces and studies the flowers on the wallpaper. Sam had mentioned it was better to lean into the delusions, not worth it to potentially upset Steve but - Bucky didn’t think it would happen so quickly. And now it’s happened, and -  _ fuck,  _ Steve’s really - this is actually happening.

“Bucky has something to say,” Sam says softly, nodding at Bucky encouragingly. “Right?”

“Right.” Bucky wets his lip, and Steve looks at him, smiling - it doesn’t  _ look  _ right, but then again, none of this does. “I’m - I’m real sorry I haven’t been to see you. I’ve been … well there’s no excuse I can give you. And I’m sorry that I haven’t been by. I’ll - I’ll be by more often.”

“Bucky.” Steve snorts and shakes his head. “We  _ live  _ together, buddy. You don’t have to worry about talking to me  _ every  _ day. There’s gotta be a dame somewhere keeping you busy.”

Sam winces at the same time Bucky does, and Bucky nods, shards of glass in his throat.  _ Light,  _ he thinks to himself desperately,  _ think about the light. Don’t correct him. Don’t scream or cry or - just - be there for him. He must be suffering too. _

“You know there’s no gal in Brooklyn who could take your place,” Bucky settles on. It’s no more coy than he would have risked in ‘35. “Punk.”

Steve nods and smiles again, his eyes drifting out the window. “Good to hear.”

That somehow twists his heart up worse than anything else - he’d expected the pattern to fall into place, for Steve to laugh it off with a  _ jerk  _ \- but - none of this is right, and his breathing starts to catch on itself, and Sam sees him turn pale, clearly because then he’s talking, saying something about -

“Bucky, I think Hill needs you to call her at two, right?” Sam’s giving him an out, and Bucky takes it - this, in no way, feels good for his soul. The shadow is back, swallowing him whole, and -

“Yeah. Sh-she did. I’ll be back, right Stevie?”

“You got it, Jim,” Steve answers distractedly, and Bucky winces -  _ does he think he’s another Howlie _ ? - before darting out the door.

He doesn’t slow down until he’s outside, running for the trees, and he stops a half mile away from the facility, near the humming fence. He laces his fingers behind his head and tilts back, sucking in air, trying to hold back the sobs building in his lungs.

“Fuck!” He screams into the trees, startling birds from their roost and squirrels from the brush. “Fuck me!”

His throat is raw now for a different reason, and Bucky wipes at his nose, breathing as though he’d run a marathon sans-serum, gripping his knees and sagging forward. He gives himself precisely seven minutes to panic, and then stands up, fixes his breathing, and head back to the facility where Sam’s waiting out front.

“It was a lot for him, I think,” Sam isn’t being unkind, but Bucky still flinches. “It was good that you came though - just a lot. He fell asleep after you left.”

Bucky nods, miserably, and Sam walks next to him back towards the car. When they’re buckled in, Bucky’s hand over his eyes as Sam starts the engine, Sam comments, “He looks kinda like a weird Joe Biden, doesn't he?”

“I won’t dignify that with a response,” Bucky says after a long moment. 

Sam snorts, and then Bucky does too, still shaky, still grieving, but Sam turns up the music and rolls down the windows, and he lets himself  _ not think  _ for the two hour drive back to the city.

* * *

“Captain.”

“You know? I think I liked it better when you were dead." Steve glares up at Red Skull, floating like a ghost at the edge of the cliff. “What the hell kinda lottery did I lose to have to see your mug again?”

“You are here to return that which I cannot have.” He floats towards Steve eerily, but he plants his feet and stands his ground, glaring up at him. “But there is a price. An exchange.”

“You killed Nat-” Steve snarls.

“No, no. A soul for a soul, Captain. I did not kill her. I do not make the rules.”

Barely shoving his anger aside, Steve holds up the Stone, glad to be almost done with this. This is his last stone, and then he can head back to Earth, use the Pym Particles, and go  _ home. _

“You can’t go home,” Red Skull says softly. “Surely you see that.”

“What do you mean?” Steve demands. No answer. “Huh? What the fuck do you-”

“You can set the universe right again, but - you must give up what you love.”

“I gotta-” Steve huffs a laugh. “I came here alone, Schmidt. You can’t kill anyone else-”

“There is something you always carry with you. The source of your strength.”

Steve’s getting tired of this tired bit. He thinks quickly, connects some dots, and -

“My - the serum?” He guesses. Steve steels himself desperately. He can do this.  _ Remember what Abraham said _ . “You want me to go back to the way I was, give up the serum - fucking fine. Take it.” He holds up the stone, gripping it tightly in his gloved hand. Schmidt doesn’t take it. “I willingly give it up - fix the universe. Take the stone.”  _ I want to go home - _

“Not the serum. Something - someone - you love above all else.”

“Someone I-” Steve swallows, tears in his eyes. He pulls the Stone back, legs shaking in their stance. “No. You can’t have him-”

“Against the universe, you weigh his soul more heavily?” Schmidt laughs coldly. “Not surprising. Not at all. You would let half the universe fall to dust all over again, as long as he was spared, is that it?”

“Not quite.” Steve sets his jaw stubbornly, sweat dripping down his back from the climb up here, and this conversation. “I’m telling you, you can’t have  _ him.  _ You can’t touch him - you can have me. Take me, I’ll trade my soul-”

“He is,” Schmidt seems to be getting closer, and Steve wonders when he’ll be swallowed whole by this creepy projection, “your soul, is he not? You’ve thought this many times to yourself.” He tsks condescendingly when Steve won’t answer. “I saw it then, all those years ago. I see it now. The man out of time with the one he loves-”

“What the fuck do you want-”

“You can have your life,” Red Skull simpers a little, his tormented face twisting in mockery. “And you can have what you love - but only half a life, and not  _ all  _ you love.”

“What are you saying?” Steve asks, desperation tinging his voice now. “Damnit, stop playing games and tell me-”

“The stone,” Red Skull extends his hand. “I take the Stone, and you have a life without he you love. Take my hand and make it so.”

Steve stares at the skeletal hand, the stone still curled tightly to his chest in his fist. “And you - you swear you won’t touch him - I do this, and he - he’s fine-”

“I do not know his fate. I only know I will not interfere with it.”

He needs to put the stone back. Bruce said - he said - the universe could collapse if he doesn’t - if he fails -

_ And where will Bucky be if there’s no universe - _

He’s being selfish. He’s always been selfish. Steve holds his hand out, moving slowly, and uncurls his fingers til the eerie orange light of the Soul Stone shines through the reddened air. 

“Deal.”

A blinding white light washes over him as Red Skull claims his prize-

Big band music drifts through the smoky air, and Steve turns, dodging a car driving towards him. He splashes through puddles and heads for a door in front of him, his feet moving compulsively. A flashing sign out front reads  _ The Stork Club - _

His eyes catch on abandoned newspaper in a puddle, the headline shouting about the surrender of the Japanese army -




Steve shoulders through the door, eyes scanning the crowd, and as the music swells to a triumphant climax, he notices a beautiful woman in a red dress, leaning against the bar and talking to a pretty girl with brown hair.

“Peggy,” he mouths, moving as though in slow motion. She looks up and smiles mysteriously at him -

Her features waver oddly. She looks herself - and not herself - then herself again. Steve blinks, and tells himself her voice sounds right when she says, “You came for that dance, Captain?”

“Yes ma’am.” He ducks his head and lets her lead him to the floor, and the music starts again, washing over them as Peggy tucks her head against his chest. Steve smiles and ducks his head a little as he stumbles. He catches the eye of a man sitting at the bar, a man with stylish dark hair and bright, piercing blue eyes - a flash of light in Steve’s eyes, like a photobulb going off, and the man has long hair, is covered in blood, his mouth forming Steve’s name - 

The light flickers back to normal, and the man toasts to Steve and Peggy, his plush lips forming a broad smile. 

“Not without you!” The man shouts at Steve, glass still lifted in a toast. 

“What?” Steve’s feet stumble again, and Peggy tucks her hand against his cheek.

“I’ve missed you, darling,” she says softly, and Steve feels happy again. An echoed sort of happy. Hollow behind his chest.

He ducks his head and accepts her kiss because you always kiss a dame like Agent Carter when she wants to and he looks back up-

The bar is gone. They're in their living room, and a song is playing over the speakers, a song that’s right, and so, so, so wrong -

_ “It’s been a long, long time-” _

It’s his living room, then a bombed out bar, his living room, then a quiet, dark farmhouse, it’s -

“How did we get here?” Steve asks hoarsely, looking around the strangely unfamiliar room that he knows is his. This is his home now -

“Oh, Steve.” Peggy smiles up at him, and they keep dancing. Peggy’s hair is shorter now -

\- Grey, thinning -

No, wait. It’s dark brown, curly, full.

They got married, he remembers. The surviving Howlies were in attendance, and Peg’s family. They’ve been married for a year. Two years? Four? 

“Do we have kids?” Steve asks suddenly, a strange thought striking him.

“Why yes, of course.” Peggy laughs. “I wasn’t sure if you wanted them at first.”

Her eyes twinkle as Steve hears the distant pounding of footsteps, a boy and a girl’s voice calling to each other from the upper level of their house.

He doesn’t know their names. Strange.

Peggy draws him down for another kiss, and Steve feels like he’s being pulled under water, if drowning didn’t hurt at all and then -

“I’m with you ‘til the end of the line,” Peggy says dreamily in his arms, and Steve stiffens.

“What?”

“I said, do you want dinner at the usual time?” Peggy leans back and smiles at him, before she looks at him in concern. “What’s wrong?”

“Where’s Bucky.” Steve stops dancing, and Peggy frowns now.

“What? Steve, darling, Bucky died-”

“No he didn’t. Hydra - hydra has him - it’s -” He doesn’t know the fucking  _ year  _ \- “they  _ have  _ him, Pegs, we have to save him- ‘Where the hell is Bucky?”

“Shhh.” Peggy shakes her head, looking terribly, horribly sad, almost sad enough for him to stop this line of questioning.

“No. Pegs, Bucky - I’m trying to tell you - he’s - he’s trapped, we gotta save him-”

Peggy grips his arms and starts to dance again as the song changes on the speaker.

_ “We’ll meet again, don’t know where, don’t know when-” _

He’s 26 again, and terrified out of his mind, and Bucky looks up at him from his embrace, eyes hooded, and he whispers, “ _ You used to put newspapers in your shoes _ -”

The world tilts, blurs, shifts back into focus, and Peggy’s the one staring up at him. “You’re scaring me, Steve.”

“I’m - I’m real sorry about that - fuck, this is all wrong -” He lets go of her and takes a step back, running his hands through his hair. “Where the  _ fuck  _ is he-”

“We’ll figure it out Steve. Dance a little longer with me.”

“I can’t - Pegs, Buck is - he’s suffering, please, come on, please-”

The edges of the living room blur and fade, pulling away like dust drifting on a breeze-

“You can’t have him, you can’t see him, you can’t love him,” a voice that isn’t Peggy issues from her mouth, and Steve’s muscles lock in fear. “These were the rules.”

Her small hands goes to his chest and pushes sharply, with much more force than a human woman should have, and Steve flies backwards, through the dissolving walls of his house as the world collapses in on itself.

He collapses in the purple-red dust of Vormir, coughing and groaning.

“Hello, Captain.” Red Skull looks down at him, uninterested in his wheezing. “Shall we try this again?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!!
> 
> And, the things Bucky's rabbi says to him comes from [https://www.chabad.org/library/article_cdo/aid/1625044/jewish/Repentance-Is-a-Trap.htm](url) from chabad.org by Rabbi Tzvi Freedman. I paraphrased some of the entry, but quoted the passage on _teshuvah_
> 
> [Here](https://www.myjewishlearning.com/article/rosh-hashanah-101/) is more information on Rosh Hashanah (The Jewish New Year) and [here](https://www.myjewishlearning.com/article/yom-kippur-101/) is information on Yom Kippur.
> 
> Again, if there's something you think I should change or add, please let me know. 
> 
> And thank you so so so much for taking the time to read this during such a strange and hectic time. I hope you're all well <3

**Author's Note:**

> THANK YOU FOR READING!!!!


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